


Unspoken Admiration

by ihavetodothis



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Insecurity, M/M, Poetry, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihavetodothis/pseuds/ihavetodothis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack muses on his unrequited attraction towards Ralph (Poem).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken Admiration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I'm much better at writing poetry than I am at writing stories, but I hope this is a decent contribution.
> 
> Enjoy! ~

His hair is the grass turned flaxen beneath my feet— mowed down in places, sticking straight up in others, but soft as silk in any state.

His eyes are the moment when you look into the mouth of a large cave, and you can’t imagine how deep it is, or what lies within it.

His touch is fire, searing my skin, and spreading warmth throughout my body.

His voice is a newborn kitten: innocent, purring, and nuzzling into my neck.

His skin is a blank canvas on which I can imagine my own markings, painted in mauve, crimson, and the colour of a blackberry that remains unripe.

 

I know him.

I know the feeling of his hair, gently falling through my fingers as water falls through a colander.

I know his eyes, as if I were looking into a mirror, forgetting myself.

I know his touch, triggering every nerve in my skin underneath his fingers, and creating unnoticed goosebumps.

I know his voice, how he whispers something dirty that he doesn’t want the others overhearing, or laughs at a ludicrous joke, or raises when he gets angry.

I know his skin, how it bounces with youth when disturbed and tears more easily than its appearance suggests.

He knows me.

He knows my hair: tangled, dirty, laden with leaves — curly, wicked, and too recognisable.

He knows my eyes, similar to his, but ersatz…arrogant, teary, weak, aggravating.

He knows my touch…my curious, eager fingers, as they ghost over places they shouldn’t, and start arguments.

He knows my voice, though he fails to appreciate its beauty, and ignores the passion that no longer exists as a result of trying too hard to please him.

He knows my skin, and its perennial peeling — its blistering sunburns.

 

He does not know, however, of my admiration towards him.

I will always remember his lack of admiration towards me.


End file.
